


After the Party

by bittergreens



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 07:34:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittergreens/pseuds/bittergreens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"An innocent New Year’s Eve party at the station, that’s what it was supposed to be; a boring New Year’s Eve party at the station. Terrible pop music on the stereo, drinking cheap champagne out of plastic cups, Lestrade urging them all to put on the silly paper hats. What could have gone wrong?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Party

**Author's Note:**

> For Anna <3

Neither of them spoke on the cab ride home.

It was not a companionable silence.

It had been snowing hard when they left and when the cab pulled up outside 221B the sidewalk was covered in snow. 

John fumbled with the key in his pocket. He couldn’t seem to get his fingers to do what he wanted. _Must be the cold,_ he told himself.

He fumbled just as ineffectually trying to get the key in the lock. _If this damned street weren’t so bloody dark._

Sherlock stood motionless beside him. 

Sherlock had been unnaturally still ever since they’d left the station. It wasn’t one of his deep-thinking stillnesses either. John didn’t know what it was. He was only half-aware of it himself. He was in shock.

An innocent New Year’s Eve party at the station, that’s what it was supposed to be; a boring New Year’s Eve party at the station. Terrible pop music on the stereo, drinking cheap champagne out of plastic cups, Lestrade urging them all to put on the silly paper hats. What could have gone wrong?

The whole thing had been John’s idea. Sherlock had happily set fire to the invitation when they’d received it (and dropped it, burning, from the window to the sidewalk below—“Who still sends paper invitations? What do they think this is, the Victorian era?”), but on the night of the party John insisted they attend.

There had been a dearth of cases recently. Sherlock was getting that wound-up rodent energy that drove John up the wall. He was certain that the party would at least provide a welcome change of scenery.

“It’ll be a chance to relax,” he’d told Sherlock.

“Watching Donovan getting drunk is not my idea of a relaxing evening.”

“Well, my idea of a relaxing evening certainly doesn’t consist of watching you pace up and down the flat!”

“Fine then, you go.”

“No. You’re coming with me.”

The party had lived up precisely to their mediocre expectations. Terrible pop music; cheap paper hats; Donovan getting steadily drunk in the corner. It was all going exactly as planned, and just as John had anticipated, Sherlock was having the best time of anyone, verbally lashing out anyone foolish enough to cross his path.

John was standing at his elbow, nursing a cup of lukewarm champagne, attempting to rein him in as best he could, having a fairly decent time himself, as he always privately did whenever Sherlock tore into anyone.

It had all been harmless, perfectly harmless. They stayed just long enough so that John saw Sherlock start to cheer up. Just as John had hoped, some of the tension had gone out of Sherlock’s shoulders. Nothing made him feel better than being cruel to people, especially people from the station. They’d been on their way out the door—they had their coats on—when Donovan appeared at John’s elbow and grabbed hold of his arm.

“Where are you going?”

Anderson was standing in the center of the room, shouting for quiet. 

“Lovely party, Sally. Great hats. Very class touch. Wish we could stay but we’ve got to be on our way. Cases to solve—”

Donovan’s grip tightened. “No. You’re staying.”

John looked into Donovan’s face, startled. “Sorry?”

She began steering him back toward the center of the room. 

Anderson was now yelling to the room at large. “Alright everyone, it’s nearly midnight. Pull that special someone close! Quickly, quickly now, we’ve less than a minute.”

Someone had turned the lights down. The only illumination came from the television in the corner where people had begun to count down from ten. John glanced over his shoulder. “Where’s Sherlock?”

“Exactly the question you should be asking, Doctor.” Donovan shoved him suddenly, hard.

John staggered into the space that had cleared in the center of the room. He was about to turn and say something to Donovan when he saw Sherlock being pushed toward him.

Somebody hit the lights. 

“Go on boys, it’s midnight. Time for that New Year’s Eve kiss.”

Everyone in the room had gathered in a circle around John and Sherlock. John could see Anderson behind Sherlock, smirking. The people on the television were screaming. 

John stared at Sherlock. Sherlock looked back at him, bewildered.

“Come on!”

“Just kiss him already!”

“We can’t bear the suspense!”

“Go on, Watson! Give him a kiss!”

“We want tongue!”

Somebody wolf-whistled. The crowd of people began pushing in around them. John couldn’t take his eyes off Sherlock’s startled face. Somebody grabbed John by his elbow and began pushing him closer. He saw Sherlock’s blue eyes narrow.

“Get off me!” He was one second away from flipping the person over his shoulder. Whoever it was must have sensed his desperation because they let go of his arm. 

John turned and dove through the throng of people to the door, shoving hard as he went. The room was a blur in front of him. He made it out the door and down the stairs onto the street without remembering how he’d gotten there.

“Taxi!”

He didn’t hear Sherlock come up beside him but the next thing he knew they were sitting together in a cab as it moved through London’s snowy streets. Sitting together, not looking at one another. 

And now, standing in the snow outside their flat, unable to get the bloody key into the lock, he felt the full weight of responsibility for the catastrophe that had just occurred. And gradually his shock was turning to anger.

There was a sick, burning sensation in the pit of John’s stomach. Why did he feel ashamed? He had no reason to be ashamed.

He finally got the key in the lock.

Fuming, John tore up the stairs to the flat. He flung his keys down on the mantle and began pacing up and down in front of the fireplace, shaking his head.

“I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it.”

Sherlock stood as quiet as a shadow in the doorway.

“Can you believe them? Can you believe the nerve?”

“John.”

“I know they don’t like us—you—and that’s fine. I don’t blame them. But this is too much. This time they’ve gone too far. I’m not going to stand for it, Sherlock. I’m not.”

“John.”

“It’s bloody ridiculous. It’s sexual harassment! I won’t put up with it. They can’t treat people like that and get away with it.”

“John, look at me.” Sherlock was standing in the center of the living room. 

John ignored him and kept pacing. “It’s sick. It’s sick and I won’t—”

“John!” Sherlock seized John by his upper arms. “Stop.”

John stood still and looked at Sherlock. “We’ve got to stop them, Sherlock. We’ve got to do something about it.”

“There isn’t anything we can do. They’ll continue being horrible to me because I’ll continue to be horrible to them.”

“Well then _I’ll_ do something about it. They’ve no right to be horrible to me.”

“Yes, they have.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re on my side.”

“Of course, I’m on your side. That doesn’t mean—”

“John.” 

“What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Sherlock was looking at John with the kind of blazing attention he gave when he was forced to utilize the full range of his deductive powers, in those rare moments when he couldn’t figure something out. 

“Did you want to kiss me?”

“What? When?” John was suddenly horribly aware of Sherlock’s hands on his arms. “Don’t be ridiculous. No! No, of course not!”

“Do you want to kiss me now?”

John’s pulse was pounding in his ears. He felt breathless. His voice came out softer than he’d intended, less certain. “No.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Sherlock…” John’s voice was pleading.

John had neglected to turn the lights on when he stormed into the flat. The only light was what came in through the windows—soft and luminescent from the snow outside. Sherlock’s blue eyes seemed to glow in the dark room.

“How long have you wanted to kiss me?”

John didn’t say anything. He wished Sherlock would take a step back, give him some room to breathe. 

There was a horribly pregnant silence. John couldn’t think of what to say. He didn’t trust his voice not to betray some emotion he didn’t want to communicate. He already felt completely exposed under Sherlock’s gaze.

“I don’t mind, you know.” Sherlock’s voice was so soft John wasn’t sure he’d heard him right.

“What?” 

“I don’t mind that you want to kiss me. In fact, I don’t think it’s such a bad idea.”

John was speechless.

Suddenly, the light in the flat, or rather the lack thereof, gave the room a kind of charged intimacy. John was aware of his surroundings in a way he wasn’t accustomed to—was this what it felt like to be Sherlock?—the light from the windows, the silhouette of the skull on the wall, Sherlock’s breath, the snow still on his shoulders, the shadowed groove at the base of Sherlock’s throat. 

John shut his eyes.

“John.”

He opened his eyes.

Sherlock was looking at him, studying his expression, waiting.

“Sherlock—” 

He didn’t know what he wanted, but somehow Sherlock knew. That one word was all he needed. 

Sherlock leaned in and brought his mouth down to John’s. This couldn’t be real. This wasn’t happening. John held himself absolutely still.

Sherlock’s lips brushed John’s and they both waited, breathless, hardly moving. 

There were too many sensations for John to take in at once—Sherlock’s mouth was softer than he could have guessed and he was overwhelmed with the scent of Sherlock this close. It was all too familiar to him but now, at the nearness of it, John felt an eruption of desire in the center of his chest like someone switching on a light.

He gasped at the sensation, opening his mouth to deepen the kiss and Sherlock sank into him, angling his body closer, his hands tightening on John’s arms.

The kiss was slow and lingering, but it wasn’t enough. John opened his mouth wider, urging Sherlock in. Sherlock complied, pulling John closer to him by the grip on his arms. John reached up without thinking, sliding his fingers into Sherlock’s hair.

They stayed like that for what felt like minutes, exploring each other’s mouths, John using his purchase in Sherlock’s hair to bring him closer, his leg working its way between Sherlock’s. 

He couldn’t believe this was happening; any of it, but the part of him that cared about rational explanations had fallen silent. All he knew was that he wanted more of Sherlock in his hands, in his mouth, against his skin—there was an urgency rising in him that he hadn’t known existed. Somehow Sherlock had seen in him what he hadn’t had the courage to admit to himself.

At last, they broke apart, breathless, and John couldn’t keep himself from grinning. 

Sherlock still hadn’t let go of his arms. He looked at John, his eyes slightly unfocused, bluer than John had ever seen. He felt his pulse pick up at the sight of them.

“What?”

He felt stupidly giddy. He was one breath away from dissolving into inappropriate laughter.

“Us.” He felt like his chest was full of air. “Jesus, Sherlock, we’re like a couple of sexually frustrated teenagers.”

Sherlock looked mildly offended. “I don’t know about teenagers. Sexually frustrated, maybe.” 

John was still trying to catch his breath. He was now painfully aware of the massive erection that was digging into Sherlock’s thigh.

A wicked expression crossed Sherlock’s face. “At least _one_ of us is sexually frustrated.” Reaching between them, he rubbed his palm over the bulge in John’s trousers.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” He grabbed hold of Sherlock’s arms to keep his knees from buckling.

“Ah, Dr. Watson, but what’s this?” Sherlock spread his fingers and moved them in a long, leisurely stroke up John’s rigid flesh. “Looks like you have a little problem that needs attending.”

John made an unintelligible sound. “Sherlock, I can’t—” He hung onto Sherlock’s arms like a drowning man. “Can’t keep standing if you’re going to…”

“Right.” Taking hold of John’s arms, Sherlock flipped him around and walked him backwards across the room to the couch. His eyes never left John’s; something in that look—like Sherlock wanted to devour him whole and then lick the bones clean—made John’s erection throb against his leg.

He pushed John back onto the couch and then straddled him. With a look of fierce concentration he began undoing the buttons on John’s shirt.

John looked up at Sherlock, trying to feel annoyed and failing. “Don’t tell me you haven’t got one too.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that, Dr. Watson. I’m got my hands full dealing with you at the moment.”

John was amazed by the dexterity of Sherlock’s fingers as they flew over his buttons, by the look of calculated interest on his face. That Sherlock was as hyper-focused about sex as he was about everything else shouldn’t have come as a surprise to John, but he genuinely wondered if Sherlock wasn’t as aroused as he was. He needn’t have worried; as Sherlock leaned against him to push John’s shirt off his shoulders, John felt the curve of Sherlock’s erection against his stomach. He groaned aloud.

“Easy there, doctor. I haven’t even started yet.”

“Christ, Sherlock. Is that really all you down there?”

Sherlock had the decency to look embarrassed. “I’m a tall man. What did you expect?”

John put a hand over his eyes, grinning like an idiot. This was his life. 

Sherlock’s quick fingers were now making short work of the buttons on John’s trousers. He shucked them off down John’s thighs, leaving only the prominently tented material of his boxers between Sherlock and the bare flesh of John’s erection.

John was so turned on he was shaking.

Sherlock ran his hands down John’s sides, long fingers rippling over his ribs. “Just lie back.”

John nodded, unable to catch his breath.

Sherlock had dropped to his knees before John, settling himself between his thighs. “Lift your hips.”

John obliged and Sherlock eased his boxers over his straining erection. John made a hissing sound as the cool air hit his burning flesh. He wanted to keep a hand over his eyes—it was too much to deal with, too much sensation—but he kept his eyes on Sherlock to witness the flurry of emotion that passed over his face: reverence, yearning, lust. His blue eyes were shuttered as he took in the sight of John’s cock.

“Just what the doctor ordered…” 

Sherlock was leaning in with a hungry look in his eyes when something occurred to John.

“Wait, Sherlock! The door! The door’s wide open. Mrs. Hudson—”

“Bugger, Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock said with such savagery that John actually did laugh.

It took him a moment to regain his composure. Sherlock looked furious.

“If you’re quite finished.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just realized… this is what she thinks we do anyway.” 

This set him off again.

Sherlock was done waiting. He dove forward and took the head of John’s cock into his mouth. John stopped laughing abruptly. 

Using his long fingers to grasp the base of John’s cock, Sherlock worked his tongue in a slow circle around the tip.

John rose up off the couch with a gasp. Sherlock placed a steadying hand on his thigh and took another inch into his mouth.

John’s whole body tensed. “God, Sherlock—”

Sherlock looked up at him, mouth still around John’s cock. A shudder of pleasure went through him at the sight. 

“I can’t—I’m not going to last long if you keep this up.” 

The corners of Sherlock’s lips curled and he slid his mouth down two more inches.

“Christ.” John let his head fall back against the couch, his hands tensing into fists. It was too much.

Sherlock was working his tongue down the sensitive underside of John’s cock, one hand firm on John’s thigh, his other hand cupping his balls.

John could feel the first tremors of his orgasm building in his thighs. “Sherlock—” Gasping, he reached out and slid his fingers into Sherlock’s hair. His grip tightened in desperation.

Taking this as his cue, Sherlock plunged the whole of John into his mouth.

John arched up off the couch as his orgasm ripped through him.

Sherlock hung on, his hands moving to grasp John by the hips. He swallowed down the whole of John’s pleasure as he thrust himself up into Sherlock’s mouth.

It was several minutes before John knew where he was again. Gradually, he sank back down against the couch, utterly boneless. 

Sherlock seemed reluctant to let go of him, but he pulled back, sitting on his heels and studying John through heavy lashes. “Well?”

John put his hands over his face and then lowered them to look at Sherlock. “That was—that was—”

“I see you’ve exhausted your running list of superlatives.”

“Fucking incredible.”

Sherlock tossed a lock of hair out of his eyes. “You sound surprised.”

John was still trying to catch his breath. “I’ve never had—it’s never been… I’ve never come that hard in my life.”

Sherlock looked unbearably smug. “Obviously you’ve been sleeping with the wrong people.”

Sherlock climbed up onto the couch, settling himself over John’s naked hips. John sucked his breath in sharply, and then reaching up, seized Sherlock by the collar of his shirt and dragged him down to his mouth. The kiss was hungry, demanding. Sherlock’s body curled willingly down to offer John more of himself. 

He could feel the force of Sherlock’s erection against his hip and he pulled harder to bring Sherlock closer against him. While his tongue dragged the length of Sherlock’s, John rolled his hips. He felt a shudder go through Sherlock. John grinned against his open mouth. Then John had an even better idea.

Not relinquishing his grip on Sherlock’s collar, John turned and slid down the back of the couch, pulling Sherlock with him until he was lying flat with Sherlock’s long body covering the length of his. 

Sherlock made an assenting sound and spread his legs to bring his cock into direct contact with John’s. John gasped, his hands fisting in the material of Sherlock’s shirt. 

He broke away with real effort. “No fair! You’re still—pants!”

Sherlock grinned against his mouth. “What was that, Doctor?”

John’s fingers moved between them and began tearing at the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt. He was a lot less graceful than Sherlock, his fingers fumbling with urgency. “Help me.”

Sherlock undid the last few buttons with enviable ease and John pushed Sherlock’s blazer off his shoulders, taking the shirt with it. He sighed, as the long pale expanse of Sherlock’s chest was uncovered. He ran his hands down the plane of bare flesh, still disbelieving.

Sherlock hissed at the touch of his hands, and gaining confidence, John’s fingers settled on the zipper of Sherlock’s trousers and pulled.

He had no idea what he was doing but he was relatively confident he could rely on instinct. He’d never felt more desperate to touch another part of someone. He couldn’t be bothered with actually taking anything off, but when his hands moved through the folds of fabric, it was easy to find what he was looking for.

When he took Sherlock in his hand, he felt his entire body go still.

Sherlock’s eyes were closed, the taut muscles in his throat stretched out, on his face such an expression of concentration he looked like he might be in pain. Keeping his eyes on Sherlock’s face, John slowly began to move his hand.

It was like watching the world in a kaleidoscope. Sherlock’s expression rippled, the lines around his eyes deepening, his mouth falling open as John moved over the length of him. He heard the unsteady exhalation of his breath, saw the muscles in his jaw tighten, and ruthlessly, delightedly, quickened the pace of his strokes.

Sherlock gasped, leaning into John’s hand. The staccato of his breath was like music in John’s ears. John was amazed by how silent he was, and yet how much he communicated without saying anything at all. He felt utterly attuned to Sherlock’s body and what it was telling him.

John shifted, sitting up to better adjust the angle of his hand. He kept his eyes on Sherlock’s face, and felt his own erection stirring to life at the reaction he was getting from Sherlock’s body. He spread his legs to better accommodate Sherlock against him, his hand moving faster as his own arousal increased.

He’d never seen Sherlock look so helpless—the expression on his face had transformed into one of pure need. His eyes remained closed; there was a crease between his brows, and a fine sheen of sweat glistened at his temples.

John watched Sherlock move above him with a mirrored expression of longing on his face. His torso seemed to gleam in the pale light reflected from the snow outside. John had never thought he’d find a man’s body attractive, but Sherlock, Sherlock with his arching neck, his lean torso, the curve of his narrow waist… he was beautiful. His arms, taut on either side of John, began to shake with the effort of supporting his weight. 

He studied the veins standing out in Sherlock’s arms, the cord of muscle in his neck, the sweat glittering in the hollow of his throat and lifting himself up on his elbows, John licked the length of Sherlock’s bared throat, his fist tightening inadvertently at the base of Sherlock’s cock as he did so.

Sherlock made a strangled sound, his eyes snapping open as his body strained forward into John’s hand. He looked wildly around him for a moment before his eyes found John. The blue of his irises were brilliant in the low light from the window.

John could feel the tremors of Sherlock’s body in his hand and he knew he was one stroke away from coming. His own cock was near to bursting, pressed against Sherlock’s inner thigh. He held himself utterly still, the only sound in the room the ragged sound of Sherlock’s breathing.

There was a faraway look in Sherlock’s eyes until they settled on John. If Sherlock had looked lost before, the emotion in his eyes now could only be characterized by relief. 

“John.” His name sounded like a plea.

“I’m here, Sherlock.”

Keeping his eyes on Sherlock’s, John pumped his hand one last time over the full length of Sherlock’s cock. He felt the shudder that coursed through Sherlock and then watched as the force of Sherlock’s pleasure erupted behind his eyes.

He pushed forward into John, his mouth falling open as John continued to stroke him with increasingly unsteady strokes. It was all he could do to keep his hand moving, so overcome was he with arousal at Sherlock’s reaction.

Sherlock collapsed against him, his breath hot on the skin of John’s chest. John felt a roaring in his ears, as all the blood seemed to rush to his cock. The muscles in his thighs tightened and he hung onto Sherlock as his own orgasm tore through him.

He clung to Sherlock, gasping, nails digging into Sherlock’s back. He was distantly aware of Sherlock’s cheek against his chest, Sherlock’s hair tickling his throat, and the gradually steadying rhythm of Sherlock’s breathing. He felt the last of his orgasm leave him and still he hung on, not caring if he was holding Sherlock too tightly, not caring if he was supposed to let go.

John lifted his chin from Sherlock’s hair and stared up at the ceiling in the half-light. He listened to the sound of Sherlock’s breathing slow and a small bubble of fear surfaced in him. Not that it was over… what? How was it supposed to go? He hadn’t even realized what he’d wanted, how badly he’d needed this. He felt something clench inside him at the thought of losing it now.

But the greater part of him was filled with contentment. The ache he’d felt whenever he’d looked at Sherlock, the ache that something was missing, it was gone. He shifted his grip on Sherlock, moving a hand up into his hair.

“I want you to know, this has all been great fun but… for the record, still not gay.”

Sherlock shifted against him so that he was lying with one leg between John’s and the other tucked against the back of the couch. His voice was sleepy. “Fine by me.”

“However…” John cleared his throat. “If a similar situation were to ah… arise in which we participated in the same sort of hmm…activity… well. Well. You know where to find me.”

He felt Sherlock grin against his chest. 

The feeling of contentment in him spread. He was amazed by how well the long curve of Sherlock’s body fit against his. He shut his eyes. 

John was almost asleep when he remembered. “Sherlock!” he whispered. “Sherlock, the door!”

“John Watson, I forbid you to move.” Sherlock’s voice was thick with sleep. “Think of it as a New Year’s present for Mrs. Hudson. She’s always wanted us to shag anyway.”

Since John had no desire to move from his current position, he decided to give it up. 

He tucked his chin back against Sherlock’s hair. “Happy New Year, Sherlock.” 

“Happy New Year, John.”


End file.
